Watch Him Dance
by SallySorrell
Summary: This piece fits into the show-canon, and explains the background of Moriarty and The Woman's... professional relationship, and how they conspired to denounce Sherlock long before the Fall. Follow the clues and enjoy! Just like the show, it can be read with or without the Johnlock. Complete! Enjoy the companion-piece, "Asklepian." Reviews equal amazing Sherlock gifs in your inbox!
1. Prelude

"It's a bit dark..." A woman's voice clawed through the cold air. She was surprised, upon opening the front door, to find light from only one distant and grainy lamp. It played desperately against the floor, changing nothing.

"I thought you'd prefer it this way."

"I'd feel better with some lights on." she decided, sliding the door shut.

With a half-betrayed shrug, the man dragged himself from his chair, plodded across the floor, and flipped up the nearest switch. The ceiling-lamp hummed into existence, and the room warmed. Her high-heels clicked across the wood foyer, requesting the man's attention:

"Irene Adler," he said, watching as she set down her suitcase, "You are just as they told me."

"A _woman?_" her laugh was gentle and suggested comfort. She peeled a glove from each hand, and stuffed them into her purse.

"_The _Woman."

"Who told you about me?"

He selected a chair for her and insisted she use it. Irene crossed her elegant legs, clasped her hands over her knees, and slipped free of her shoes.

"That," he said, "isn't something I can say. Yet."

She followed his eyes as they lapsed her body. They hovered, supposedly, at her neckline, so she tugged innocently at the string of pearls she wore.

"Those are nice." He said, without moving his gaze, "A present?"

"From a friend... she knows what I like."

"I wasn't expecting to have competition."

He sat at the chair across from her and studied her face. He found the thickness of her makeup somewhat disorienting, and settled on staring at her lips.

"I think this case could do with your help, Irene." his eyes grew darkly apologetic, and he grasped nervously at his coat-collar, "May I call you 'Irene'?"

The woman slid her shoes beneath the chair, and stared after them.

"I am 'Ms. Adler' to my _professional _clients, if you wouldn't mind."

"Ooh," he stood, "a _power _play! You haven't heard much about _me _recently, have you?"

"I've heard enough to come back, haven't I? Couldn't refuse a safe place to stay, free of charge."

"Ugh," he said, "you make it sound so _boring_. I wouldn't call it safe, and I especially wouldn't call it _free_."

"What should I call it then, Mr..."

She brushed her fingers over his trouser-pockets. The back ones. He took a jerky step away.

"Oh, no, I don't think so."

"Hmm?" She curled up her fingers and whipped them away, as if she'd just touched a boiling tea-kettle, by accident.

"No, that's alright." her hands returned, "But you shouldn't call _this_ that. Or me."

"What should I call you?" her eyes were intense, and her voice was hollow.

"Jim." he extended his hand, which she shook, then used for support as she stood.

She was refreshed to find their faces at the same level; his eyes were fascinating.

"James." she decided. She returned to her seat, and twisted round to face the window. With a sharp, stinging glare, she demanded he draw open the curtains.

"Three wishes." he told her, once he'd followed her instructions, "And that was one."

"I'm not very well-behaved. Whoever you talked to, I'm sure they told you that."

"Please," instantly, his voice became strangely cold, "none of my _employees _are."

She chose not to argue further, and resigned herself to a long, though very profitable, line of work.

"What are you needing my help with, James?"

"I need you, _Irene_, to play a game with me."

She scrambled to open her suitcase, which he dismissed:

"I've some cards to deal this evening, and I need someone to watch the house."

"I can do much better than that!"

"Safe and free." he reminded her, beginning a thoughtful pace about the room, "I'm going to visit a friend of mine... Sherlock Holmes. Have you heard of him?"

She shook her head.

"I'll tell you _all _about him when I get back. Won't that be fun, a bit of gossip?"

Feigning a delicate smile, she nodded.

"Sherlock and I have played this game before, though, so he's learned to cheat. The last time we spoke..."

"Yes?"

"Well, usual getting-to-know-each-other stuff... I promised to burn his heart out, and he just said he didn't have one. Isn't that _boring?_"

"Dreadfully." she bit her lip. The contrast, the white atop the red, reminded him fondly of a knife-wound; deep and clean.

"I hate to admit this, but he's given me a rather interesting idea. He said I've got strings, and I tug them to make him dance."

"Oh?" she was slightly more intrigued.

"I think, if I can sever all the strings at once, his pathetic, self-constructed world might collapse on top of him. And then, you can help me pick up the pieces. There are some valuable ones, I'm afraid."

"His heart?" she asked, leaning in and resting her chin over her hands.

"No; just its strings. I'm going to cut them. Every. Single. _One_."

* * *

**The Title Challenge: ****want me to write you a oneshot? Review or PM me the meaning of each chapter title (there will be eight chapters total. You can submit one at a time or all together.) There's no limit; I'll write for everyone who gives the right answers, and I'll write for any fandom/pairing you want. Have fun, guys! Join the mystery... You know you want to!**

**Thanks,**

**Sally**


	2. Inquieto

Irene spent the evening in her own typical way: she inspected the house and found which doors were locked, which tiles were loose, which windows were false, and which bricks were hollow. This was done, not to make an enemy, but to ensure an ally.

Then, she found a room she liked and started unpacking her cases. She selected the room based on its warmth and not its allocations; it was certainly not intended as a bedroom, but had a charming hearth and an interesting metal desk. After checking her phone and the time, she chose to examine what was _certainly _her employer's bedroom. He lived alone.

She was surprised to find everything coordinating in shades and patterns. The sheets were pulled somewhat crookedly over the bed to show that, even though he was alone, he used one specific half each evening. Irene grinned to herself as she rummaged through his hamper to find a dressing gown. The one she selected was grey and silky and absolutely _bathed_ in his cologne.

Once stripping off her unnecessary clothes (all of them), she went to sit in the foyer and await his return. The dressing-gown cooled her skin, and its scent nearly lulled her to sleep.

The door remained shut for many hours. She contemplated the key-hole, and had to remind herself she wasn't dreaming when it _finally _clicked and turned.

"How did it go?" she asked.

Moriarty sauntered in and switched on every light he passed.

"Oh, marvelous. Brought you something."

He set down a Styrofoam cup of tea, and a delicately-wrapped pastry.

"Waited at that dreadful café for _ages_. I had a date, but she cancelled on me. Smarter than I thought she was…" He explained, "I took pictures for you."

"Of…?"

"Their flat. Pleasant little place."

"_Their _flat_?"_

"Sherlock and his pet. A watch-dog, I suppose. Rather like you, Irene."

"I doubt it." She said, standing and loosening his tie, "I _work _for you, don't I, James?"

"If that's what you call it."

She slid off his jacket and tossed it to the ground. The man looked only at his phone, even as Irene pricked his neck with her nails, and slammed her lips against his shirt-collar. As he saw the pictures, he recalled:

"And he never sleeps; Sherlock. Had to leave his gift outside for the landlady."

"What did you give him?" Irene sampled the tea and the pastry, but enjoyed neither.

"Just a few clues. It's all a game, remember?"

She nodded as she flipped through the pictures. She was pleased to memorize the layout of the rooms.

"I need him to bet on a horse for me."

* * *

To say Sherlock was the first to awaken in the household would be incorrect, as he'd never fallen asleep the previous evening. He spent those dark, quiet, and – as he called them – _respectful_ hours contemplating the familiar cologne that hovered into his bedroom, and constructing the purpose of the heavy footsteps he heard outside. He did, however, enjoy the excuse of remaining in his bedroom until _someone_ made _something_ for breakfast. It would be Mrs. Hudson today, he guessed. Well, he _knew_. He heard her voice, then John's:

"Is he still asleep? That can't be healthy…" Three plates, all different sizes, were placed on the table.

"Will be, for Sherlock." the dining chairs skidded against the floor, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll just take the newspaper."

As Sherlock heard the crisp paper unfold, he slinked from his room.

"Someone's been here." He said, not waiting for John to look. The doctor, although mostly accustomed to this behaviour, still jumped in his seat.

"What?" he wiped up the bit of coffee he'd spilled. The mug was halfway between his saucer and his lips when Sherlock surprised him.

"Moriarty was here last night." The cologne was stronger in the dining-room, and Sherlock tracked it to his arm-chair.

"In our flat?" his eyes followed the detective, "Sherlock, here?"

"Yes. Obviously."

He produced, from his armchair, his violin-bow. While the wood was intact, all its fibres were cut.

"And of _course _he'd ruin the good one." Said Sherlock, "Horse-hair. Didn't bother with the one in my case, or on the bookshelf, or in my bedroom. Nylon."

Still clutching the bow, Sherlock joined John at the table. Without looking, he stole a piece of toast from John's plate, but replaced it after one disappointed bite.

"Wrong." He told himself, dismissing a stack of theories, "There must be another one… somewhere."

"Sorry," said John, cutting off the borrowed bit of his toast, "one what?"

"He didn't come to kill us, obviously, but was very particular in what he did. There _must _be a reason."

As a precaution, Mrs. Hudson tapped their door before entering. With her, was an envelope.

"Someone's left this at my door by mistake."

"Who sent it?" asked John. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"There's no address." He said, not bothering to look at it, "This is the _one_."

He was correct. Mrs. Hudson placed the packet between them, despite the fact it was addressed solely to Sherlock, and retired from the room.

"Moriarty?" John asked, leaning in.

"Good, John." Sherlock nudged, as he peeled the envelope apart, "It's nice my doctor doesn't lack all of his common sense."

John folded up his newspaper, rubbed his eyes, and decided bickering was pointless. Sherlock considered this his second display of logic so far, and allowed him to study the contents first, as a reward.

"What? Sherlock, I won't be—" He was presented with a five-pound note, a knot of red string, and a rubber stamp which read, '20'.

"What do you think, John?"

"I don't know, Sherlock, it just looks—"

"I don't _know_, either. But I've some ideas, and I think we should compare. What do you _think_, John?"

"Alright, I heard you. Uhm," he picked up the string and stretched it, "it's not supposed to be a noose, is it?"

"Hadn't thought of that."

"So it's…?"

"I hadn't thought of that because it's wrong."

"Okay, fine." John's waning confidence was washed over completely. He slumped back in the chair and crossed his arms.

Sherlock took the stamp and pressed it over the newspaper.

"Invisible ink?" asked John.

"Of course not." Said Sherlock, "This isn't one of your movies."

"_My _movies?"

"The ones you watch. It doesn't matter." He considered the money, then placed it in his wallet, "Come on."

"What, where are we going? Sherlock, I'm not even dressed."

"Hadn't noticed."

The detective stood, waited impatiently for John to rush to his room, and finalized his theory.

"We're going to Folstone Downs."

"The racetrack?" John had _just _arrived at the base of the stairs, still tugging at his shirt.

"Obviously. I'll get a cab."

"Guess I'll wait to ask, then." Said John, following his friend down the stairs, "Need something to do on the ride there, I suppose."

Sherlock stopped the first passing taxi, and they clambered in.

"Go on." He said, after shutting the door.

"Why are we going to a racetrack?"

"To bet on a horse." he said flatly, looking at the new addition to his wallet.

"Just whatever one we want?"

"No. Don't know which horse, but I'm certain of the track."

"Great. How d'you figure?"

"The stamp, John, is rubber. Folstone is the closest synthetic track, so it's the first we'll go to. There's no reason for it to be wrong. And I didn't consider car-tracks, because of the..." Sherlock paused and waved his hands at John, as if conducting him.

"Your bow... Horse-hair." John was pleased with himself, but quickly overshadowed by his companion:

"Then the string, I haven't a clue, but the note is definitely for us to bet with."

"What about the number?"

"Twenty? Could be a million different things. The post, the jockey's age, the race programme, the odds… It's all numbers."

"He'd want us to pick a specific horse, wouldn't he? So it wouldn't just be luck."

"I doubt there's luck involved. Moriarty's taken its place."

"You think he's fixing races?"

"As a hobby, maybe. But this is something else. Completely unrelated, in fact."

"Obviously." Muttered John. Sherlock turned, eyes harsh:

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Did you bring your gun?" Sherlock asked, after a comfortable span of staring through the window. He noted the signs and filed them away.

"'Course not."

"Should've done. I don't think there'll be any danger, but it never hurts."

"It does," said John, rubbing compulsively at his shoulder, "That's _all _it does."


	3. A Bene Placito

**Author's note: I'm really excited for the title-contest, guys, so send in your answers! Also, in BBC-Sherlock tradition, you'll find some lines directly from the Arthur Conan Doyle stories. I promise I'm not abusing his work or copyrights. Thanks for stopping by!**

* * *

"Here, please." said Sherlock to the driver. They stopped in a car-park which faced the racing grounds, but was certainly not affiliated with them. Sherlock paid their fare and promised John only a short walk.

"Have you figured out which horse yet?" John asked. Since mention of his handgun, the journey had been a silent one. He hoped Sherlock borrowed this time and traded conversation for thinking. He hadn't:

"That's what we're _here_ for. Find a programme, would you?"

John took a brochure from a basket on the wall; they'd just entered the front room of the hall, where bets were placed and bills were paid. Sherlock went to settle their entry fees, and urged John to look over the programme.

"You really think I'll find it?"

"I never overlook the possibility of surprise. _Think_, John."

The chair where John waited was scratchy and coughed up a good deal of ash when he sat on it. Like, he assumed, the patrons that typically used it. He chose not to employ the armrests, and held the paper closer than usual to his face.

"Anything?" Sherlock arrived, patting the chair in a way John hated. He stood up and stepped away.

"Nothing about a 'twenty'," he said, "They're only having six races today, none of the jockey's ages are listed, and there's no odds at twenty-to-one."

"Four-to-one?"

"Oh, for the fiver?" he checked, "No."

"What else?"

"Hmm?"

"There's something else." his voice was urgent, "What is it?"

Sherlock focused his eyes and curled his brows, waiting for John to proceed.

"There's one race," he said, slightly unsure of himself, "that had twenty horses in it, but one's scratched. Had to have been decided at least a day ago, though... I think they print these in advance."

"They do." said Sherlock, after feeling the paper, "Which race?"

John opened the packet and pointed at the schedule:

"It's at 11:00. Dunno when betting closes."

"A simple problem to solve." said Sherlock. He left John at the smoker's throne and went to the betting window.

The man behind the counter, Sherlock saw, was ruefully accustomed to this sedentary lifestyle. He was somewhat overweight, all his breaths were crackly, and his face was flushed despite the fact he took, Sherlock assumed, no more than ninety steps per day.

"Seems funny about _Accomplice_, doesn't it?" Sherlock said, in a voice the doctor barely recognized. He turned to watch, intrigued as ever.

"I'd have her scratched too... She's no good in the rain." said the worker, "Only thing funny is how the forecast turned out."

The day was sunny, which he indicated with an odd laugh and a gesture at the glass-paned doors.

"Which one d'you reckon, then?"

"I'm not technically allowed to give advice." said the man, "I used to make money off it."

"I've some money to spend." said Sherlock, feeling for his wallet. He did not, however, remove it from his pocket.

John, mostly because the chair was making him sick, strolled up beside Sherlock and leaned toward the microphone on the window.

"You'll have to wait." the worker barked, "I'm dealing with this one."

"He's with me." said Sherlock. He turned and hoped his eyes could convey a useful message to John, "Were you going to bet, as well?"

"Yeah," he decided, holding up his programme, "Five pounds on _Prime Number_, please."

"Wasn't that the favourite?" Sherlock was delighted to play along, "Please, John, don't be boring."

The worker was, as the detective predicted, offended:

"Now, normally I'd be with you on that. Overrated, right? _Prime_, though, can't go wrong with him... way too good for the mutts we run here. I thought it was a mistake when I saw the prints."

John passed over his money, gave Sherlock a face which he read as "I told you so", and collected his receipt. Sherlock placed an identical bet, using Moriarty's note.

"Now, you won't make much off it." the worker told them as they turned, "'Cause he's the favourite. Mostly, though, 'cause he was scratched this morning."

Both men provided variations of "What?" and stomped back to the counter.

"I can still make money off it." the man was pleased with himself, and slammed the cover on his window, "Good day!"

"We'll go 'round to the stables, then." Sherlock decided, then read his friend's disappointment, "And you can have five pounds of mine, if you need it."

"Never mind," said John, "Thanks."

As soon as they were outside, Sherlock paused and tapped his coat-pocket.

"Have you got your I.D.?"

"Mine?"

"I'd prefer Lestrade's."

After rolling his eyes, John nodded.

"See," said Sherlock fondly, "you do surprise me."

They arrived at a tall chain-link fence, then stared at each other.

"Not breaking in, are we?" John was uneasy.

"Shouldn't think so."

Sherlock rattled the fence with both hands. John watched. No one arrived to stop them.

"I've changed my mind." Sherlock told him, testing the strength of the fence and its locks.

"Guess they can't afford security? Not a friendly place, this."

With John's reluctant assistance, they pried apart two panels of the fence and slipped between them. They shuffled through lanes of rugged, portable stalls and lacklustre paddocks. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped and extended his arm to ensure John would stop, too.

He led them to a particular enclosure, decorated with an expensive, copper name-plate. It read, as they expected, 'Prime Number'.

"There'll be someone in with him." Sherlock judged the brightness and volume, "Owners, probably. Come on."

Inside they found the horse, in evident pain, and a solitary groom, who wavered under their false titles:

"Mycroft Holmes," announced Sherlock, producing his card, "And my companion, Detective Inspector Lestrade. This has been identified as a crime-scene, and I must _insist_ you leave immediately."

"Crime-scene, Sir?" said the groom, still skimming their papers, "It was an accident, I swear."

"There'll be time for that in court." Sherlock shoved the boy away, and ensured he retreated beyond the capacity of their voices.

Sherlock assumed, based on the boy's expression and tone, that he was very fond of his work and his horse, and hadn't told anyone else about _Prime_'s condition. Nor would he, for he feared losing his job. He would perhaps summon the police, but only if it became convenient and he feared for his horse's safety.

"That should give us plenty of time."

"We don't even know if this is the right horse." John told him.

"It's a good guess." Sherlock knew John preferred this phrase to his usual alternatives, "Look there."

He gestured at the horse's hind-legs. Both were caked in an unsettling amount of blood, and the animal leaned against the wall for balance. Even with his limited knowledge of horses, Sherlock assumed this was abnormal:

"What do you say, Doctor? An _accident_?"

John shrugged and knelt to examine the injuries. He did not, however, touch the animal, for fear of being kicked.

"Tendons." he said, returning to his feet, "And definitely on purpose."

Both legs had matching injuries; about halfway between the horse's hoof and knee-joint was a disturbingly deep cut. The tendon, as John called it, was barely attached, and dangled like overcooked spaghetti. He made this comparison based only on the frequency of their visits to Angelo's. Sherlock laughed, once, then returned to inspecting their surroundings:

He found a plastic slip above the door, stuffed full of papers, and stood on his toes to scan them properly: _bloodlines, feeding instructions, exercise schedule. Contact information: trainer, groom, farrier, veterinarian. Nothing about owners._

_Less than a minute,_ the approaching footsteps shouted to him. He leaned his head through the stall-gate, and noticed the groom leading a party: _a police-officer who certainly had somewhere better to be, assorted track staff, and the man from the ticket counter. No owners. _He considered this, and Moriarty's money: _The horse has recently been sold. _

"I've seen enough." Said Sherlock, eyes still shifting, "Are you okay to run, John?"

"Of course."

"They're unarmed." He promised, throwing open the stable-door and successfully spooking the horse. He made an awful, shrill whinnying noise, which made a great distraction for the charging party. Rather than chase Sherlock, they all patted the horse and led him back to the stall. The officer called after them, but wasn't inclined to pursue.

Despite this, the duo didn't stall or slow until they were well beyond the parking lot. As they neared a side-street, Sherlock began searching for a taxi.

"You've got it figured out, then?" John asked, picking up his breath.

"The bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive."

Sherlock consulted his phone as he spoke:

_Local News - Prime Number_

_Article, published today at 8:12 A.M. - In the bidding-war of the century, famed steeplechaser Prime__** Number**__ fetched just under £20 million at private auction. The buyer, only identified as __**Waverly,**__ owns several concert-halls, and says he is taking up horses as strictly a 'hobby.' Mr Michael Holladay, the horse's former owner, says he is 'thrilled' with the contract's outcome, and will 'of course' visit __**Prime**__ at his next race. _

_End - No other stories found with the keywords 'Prime Number'_

_Enter new search terms?_

"The horse was sold." Sherlock continued, putting away his phone, "Finalised this morning. Twenty-million pounds."

"Why would they bother racing him? And _here_, especially, if he's that good?"

"Safe, out-of-the-way, innocuous. _Quiet_."

As always, the case seemed completely transparent to John when Sherlock explained it. He was excited to contribute, though, whenever possible:

"So the 'twenty' was for the cost?"

"Yes."

"_Twenty-million quid_, for a horse!"

"Yes." Sherlock repeated. He drummed his fingers inside his pockets. The morning was cold, although still unburdened by rain, "Quite a lot of money, stolen, and no one to answer for it. Couldn't be done at a larger track; too many eyes, too much curiosity. _Fans_."

"D'you think the man who took our bets is in on it?"

"I know he isn't."

"The groom?"

"Doubt it."

"Did Moriarty loan the money?"

"He only gets involved in murders."

"Well, maybe they'll put the horse down, if that counts. Didn't seem that bad, but, I'm not sure..."

"Oh, I've been stupid!" Sherlock scolded himself, then turned sincerely to John, "It hasn't happened yet. News hasn't broken about the horse... then there _will _be a murder. Of course there will!"

"The buyer or the seller?"

"Both, I hope. That'd be more interesting."

John glared.

"Sorry." Said Sherlock, "That's not good."

A cab found them, and the driver honked his horn.

"D'you want me to phone Lestrade?" John asked, as Sherlock opened the door for him.

"I suppose it's worth the lecture. Tell him to look for a 'Waverly' or a 'Michael Holladay.' The story was considered 'local' news, so I don't think either's had time to leave the country... wouldn't bother, anyway, unless they were involved with killing the horse. Moriarty's _very _sophisticated, so it shouldn't be later than tomorrow."

"The actual murder?"

Sherlock nodded.

"We can stop for lunch." He said, reading his companion's strained face, "I need to research our potential victims."

"Thanks," said John, "I'll take that fiver, as well."


	4. Cadenza

Irene slept that night in Moriarty's house, dressing-gown, room, bed, and arms. The latter was not done intentionally.

"I can see you've picked a room out," Moriarty had told her, eyes glowing, "Do you prefer sleeping on the floor?"

She rolled her eyes, once he looked away, and lay flatly atop all the blankets on the unused side of his bed. Due to her discomfort, she awoke that morning before the sun. She wasn't fond of such affectionate displays, and assumed he was messing with her, anyway.

In accordance with the previous evening, she waited many hours for Moriarty to join her. He shuffled in, muttered about missing the news of his 'project', and made tea for them both.

"Didn't expect to see you up." He joined her on the couch. She was painting her fingernails whilst watching the telly, volume muted.

"Wasn't tired." She muttered, "Didn't do any work."

"We'll soon change that. You're quite right, Irene; you're far too clever to be locked away in a castle."

"A castle," she laughed, "with one bedroom."

"Don't make me sound modest. I never am."

"Practical, then."

"It's alright, anyway, seeing as we're married."

"Are we?"

"We are, for tomorrow evening." he showed his hand, adorned with gold, "I've some business for you to help me with."

He produced an impossibly dramatic ring and tossed in carelessly at her mug of tea. It 'clinked' against the handle then tumbled to the table.

"Another clue?" she asked, placing it on the appropriate finger. She breathed coolly on her hands to help the polish settle.

He nodded, pleased with himself, and sipped his tea.

"Why are you leaving him clues? I was _told _I'd be safe here."

"Oh, he won't find us. No one finds me. It's good to keep him distracted, though."

"I was also told you liked showing-off."

"I _need _to. This, Irene, is my job. Best in the world."

"Why are you giving him clues, then, James?"

"It really is spectacular." He set down his teacup and crossed his feet over the table, "I am holding his hand and leading him in a circle. Just using some of the more trivial items on my To-Do List to study my _favourite _marionette, and to acquire an embarrassingly large sum of money at the same time. You'll be able to buy your own castle, soon enough."

"Won't he figure out there's no connection?"

"Oh, but there _are_ connections; that's the brilliant bit. Several of my clients, being typically devoid of intelligence, have stumbled into a dangerous deal and thought revealing my name would help them. Remind me to introduce you, tomorrow night, to the stupidest man in England."

* * *

"You haven't told Lestrade yet." Sherlock observed, as their car paused in traffic.

"Went to answer-phone," said John, "Weren't you listening?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"It's alright; I texted him." John displayed his phone, and Sherlock hovered over his shoulder to read:

Greg,

Be on the lookout for Waverly

or Michael Holladay today.

Expecting murders.

Thanks,

JW

"We'll do French, I think." Sherlock looked out the window and instructed the driver to stop.

"You're eating?"

"No. It'll be quiet."

Instinctively, Sherlock led them from the street-corner to a French bistro. They sat outside, with Sherlock comparing newspapers and John skimming for the names on his phone. This was quickly reversed, as John preferred the paper, and, as Sherlock reminded him, was hopelessly slow at typing on the touch-screen.

"The events page." Sherlock said, just as John received his meal, "Third entry."

Somewhat irritated, John sampled his food before following Sherlock's instructions:

"'_Maison de la Sang _Symphony Hall to celebrate its re-opening with fundraising gala'." John read, "What about it?"

As Sherlock prepared to explain, his phone rang. This was buried deep in his coat-pocket and, although he heard it, he ignored it. John's buzzed, moments later, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes and toss it back to its owner:

"Hello?" John then mouthed '_Lestrade'_ to Sherlock, put the phone on speaker, and placed it between them on the table:

"Just got off a call," Lestrade said, "with a Constable Athelney, whom I've never met. He wanted to give me some information on a crime-scene I set up this morning."

"Where?" prompted John.

"He does night-security for Folstone, the racetrack. Care to explain?"

"Not at the moment." Grumbled Sherlock.

"Don't be childish, or I'll have to come and collect my I.D. And don't argue; I know you've got it."

Sherlock sighed and tossed his shoulders in agitation:

"Do you remember Moriarty? The man with the bombs…"

"'Course I do."

"He's planning another little game for us."

John glared, cuing Sherlock to recover:

"I'm sure there will be murders, which I can stop if you _leave me alone_."

"Fine, if you'll give me a ring next time." he relaxed, "Is that what the names were about, John?"

"Yeah." He said, "They're the most recent owners of the horse we looked at this morning."

"Horse? Not the one Athelney shot...?" Lestrade was somewhat puzzled, "That's what he called to tell me about. He's had a hell of a day..."

"What, they shot the horse on purpose?" John took a turn at being lost, "Didn't seem life-threatening to me!"

"Your friend, Mr Waverly, called and requested the animal be put out of his misery. Legs were all cut up, I guess you saw."

"Thank you." Sherlock said, with sudden excitement. He tapped the phone to end the call.

"Sherlock," John pleaded, "Sherlock?"

"Mr Waverly," he began, after a substantial breath, "is working _with _or _for _Moriarty. He's bought the horse, then had it killed, in order to make back his investment _and_ collect the insurance. A simple motive, like I told you. The seller, though, Holladay, doesn't seem likely to give up the money he's just made… although he's frightfully stupid, he must be_somewhat_ suspicious about the untimely death of his horse. Holladay, then, is the body we're waiting for. He would, with a great deal of professional assistance, understand the horse's injuries and trace responsibility to Waverly – terrible under duress – and then, easily, to Moriarty. The man is also dangerously charitable, and spends too much time away from home. Makes Moriarty's job even easier."

"You've got all that from some news-articles?"

"Lestrade's right," he mused, "it is childish."

John provided a half-smile, then received a text:

Nothing about either,

but I'll keep looking.

Phone if you need me.

G

* * *

Moriarty was thrilled to provide Irene with an overview of his current web of projects. They spent the entire morning on the couch, sipping tea and exchanging stories.

"So we're meeting Mr Holladay tomorrow," the woman verified, "at the Gala?"

"I prefer to call it a _ribbon-cutting_."

She gave a delicate laugh and a charming smile:

"And you'd like me to speak with him?"

"That's a silly idea." His voice was most frightening when soft; a cherry-flavoured poison, "I need you to _speak_ with our guest of honour. He hasn't received his invitation yet!"

"Oh?"

"I trust you'll wear something... appropriate?"

"Of course."

"Know that, when I say 'appropriate', I mean the complete opposite. He's very hard to get to, the Iceman. That's why I never call him anything else."


	5. Bocca Chiusa

Moriarty spent the entire day perfecting his plan, and discussing it with his new accomplice:

Both Holladay and Waverly were clients of his, and accidentally brought up his name in conversation. This resulted in rather a lot of unnecessary drama involving a racehorse, and the questionable trading of some money. If left alone, he was sure the men would 'settle the murdering business' themselves. Thus, Moriarty was pleased to dig up the details of their lives, weave them into something Sherlock would like, then simply watch. The introduction of Mycroft to the Gala would be an examination of Sherlock's heart, and the possibilities if it were stretched too thin.

"If Molly hadn't cancelled on me," he said, feigning disappointment, "I would use her for this, instead. I'm sure you'd do wonders on that poor girl."

In a bout of laziness rivalled only by Mycroft Holmes, Moriarty decided he would retire to sleep early. He requested a blanket from his bedroom, and decided to remain on the couch for the night. To ensure she had the bed to herself, Irene slipped off the man's belt, and fastened his hands to the armrest.

"I won't go anywhere." he told her.

"Oh, I know. I won't let you."

She enjoyed this time alone, as well as the comfort of a new dressing-gown and some of the leftover blankets. Tonight, she slept comfortably underneath them.

"Irene!" she was summoned early in the morning, and put on only her shoes before entering the foyer.

"Hmm?"

"I was rather hoping you'd untie me." his face was annoyingly smug, and he clicked his fingernails against the belt-clasp.

She was incapable of following his order directly; she provided him with a knife and watched as he sighed and sawed himself free.

"I need to get ready." she said, turning away. Once in her own room, she prepared a suitable outfit, styled her hair, and applied her makeup more delicately than ever.

"That's perfect." he stood in her doorway, but this did not frighten her. She was tightening her dress, and smiled when he assisted her with the lacing, "Want to have breakfast?"

"Should've asked before I got the dress on," she laughed, "But coffee would be lovely."

"I can untie it." he said, already beginning to do so.

"Coffee." she turned round immediately, and her gaze was stinging.

* * *

Something similar was occurring at 221B Baker Street. Upstairs, Sherlock sat, lacing and unlacing his fingers, and staring blankly through the window. John entered, only to set down two mismatched mugs of coffee. He stirred one to settle the sugar.

"I'll be back in a bit. Need anything?"

He received no answer.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" he snapped. Considering his focus entirely wasted, he scooped up his damaged violin-bow and stared at it instead.

"I'm taking Mrs Hudson to do her shopping. D'you need anything?"

Again, there was silence. John shrugged, finished his coffee, and padded down the stairs.

"A violin-bow." said Sherlock, long after his friend was gone. He finally noticed the coffee, and drank it despite its weary taste and temperature. Then he collected all of his bows and arranged them on the dining-table.

"It _must_ be in the bow."

He retrieved his letter-opener from the hearth, where it was impaling the Cluedo board, and began slicing the threads on each bow. This was the only thing he could think of to do for entertainment, although he hoped it would also produce evidence.

"One at a time..." he muttered, "I never heard him. He was here and I didn't notice... One at a time!"

By mistake, he severed multiple threads at once, and tossed the subject aside. His fingers twitched, for which he scolded himself, then foolishly rewarded the behaviour with a nicotine-patch. Sighing and steadying his grip, he started work on the next bow, and succeeded in ruining all of them. By the time John returned, Sherlock was contemplating the wad of red string. He noticed John's shadow in the entryway:

"'A violin-bow', I said." He lounged in his armchair, but leapt to his feet when John approached him.

"What?"

"I need a new one."

With furrowed brows, John began forming his question, but halted upon seeing the graveyard on the table. The strings were sorted, Sherlock told him, by composition, thickness, and length after cutting.

"Why?" John cleared some space for his shopping-bags.

"Dead-end. It doesn't matter." to emphasize this, he brushed all the pieces together and disposed of them, "We're going out this evening."

"Wish you'd call it something else... just you and me?"

"You and_ I._ I need to introspect." He produced a day-old newspaper, and pointed at the Gala event entry, which he'd circled.

"Is it to do with Moriarty?"

"You're smarter than you look."

"Well, if you're gonna be like that," he said, tossing his head to the side, "I don't have to come with you."

"But you will. I see it in your stance and your face, and the way you're reaching for your wallet. The way you roll your eyes, though; that's the giveaway."

John decided it best to shut his eyes, and go change his clothes for the Gala. Sherlock, meanwhile, slumped back in his chair and played with the red string.

"Don't you have a red necktie, John?"

"Why?" his voice fell down the stairs.

"Knew you did. Good."

* * *

"I like your phone-case," Irene's first choice of words was incredibly effective, "it's gorgeous."

"Er, thanks," said the other woman, "Can I help you?"

Her duty, as a secretary, was to maintain her employer's calendar. As she worked for Mycroft Holmes, she was instructed to keep it as empty as possible.

"I need a word with Mr. Holmes, please."

"He's very busy today."

"You keep his schedule, then? His appointments?"

The other woman, who chose to introduce herself only as 'Anthea', nodded and continued staring at her mobile phone.

"Are you very busy today?" Irene's voice was thick and alluring, "I could speak with you instead, if you'd prefer."

"Sure." said Anthea. She was able to focus on her phone, until Irene decided to remove her jacket. She twisted her fingers along the lace at the back of her dress, and smiled. Anthea prepared to speak, but Irene placed a finger firmly over her lips. Her fingernail, red and glittery, drew a line on the secretary's lip.

"You could do with a night off," Irene said, in the richest of whispers, "and I've a brilliant way to distract your employer, if you're willing to listen..."

Mycroft, who was sitting in his office, was occupied by absolutely nothing. There was a groove on the floor in front of him, from where he twirled his umbrella constantly. Now, though, he chose to tap it, until his pattern was interrupted by a hum from his computer. He sighed and dragged himself to inspect it; an event had been amended to his calendar. Rather than call for Anthea, he took out his phone and dialled:

"To what pleasure do I owe _this_ correspondence, Brother Dear?" Sherlock mordantly began.

"It seems I'm to attend a concert this evening."

"How considerate of you to warn me. I'll stay home, then."

"Oh, don't let me interfere with your night out. I didn't know John enjoyed the symphony...?"

"I didn't know you did."

"Some frivolous fundraiser, I'm afraid." Mycroft muttered, inspecting the document, "I was hoping you would confirm my safety, considering your current obsession with our friend Moriarty."

"I doubt he'll be there," said Sherlock, "I'm just going for the murder."

"Delightful."

* * *

"Completely brilliant." Moriarty praised Irene, as they stood outside the music-hall, "Where are you meeting her?"

"I protect my clients' privacy." She said, "Unlike you."

"I _am_ naughty." He said, and she grinned, "Once you've introduced yourself to Mr Holladay, the night is yours. My treat."

In what Irene firmly believed was a transparent disguise, both of them were overdressed. They leaned close together, and massaged one another's hands.

The crowd was small and chatty, and the ceremony far less dramatic than Moriarty hoped. Mr Holladay, being the richest there, was expected to cut the ribbon that obstructed the doors, and then make a hefty donation. Moriarty's eyes gleamed, as the man reached for his scissors.

_Snap_.

"Now the work begins." He told Irene. They stepped toward Holladay, and traded quiet comments on how unfortunate his taste in clothing was. Moriarty declared it inversely proportional to his wealth. They remained decently hidden in the waves of camera-flashes, "Scare him, will you?"

"As your wife?" Irene laughed, "Anyone should be afraid of me."

Once all the pictures were taken, Irene approached Holladay. Her words bit him:

"I don't believe we've met..." she extended her hand, "Irene Moriarty."

* * *

At this point, John and Sherlock arrived and claimed their seats. Mycroft used his umbrella to wave at them; he was provided with box-seats, while they were on a crowded balcony. They received a text simultaneously, at which John chuckled and Sherlock shrugged:

Commoners.  
MH

Sherlock confirmed the location and identity of Mr Holladay, then listed all the millions of ways he could be killed while they watched. John, meanwhile, tugged at the tie he wore. Sherlock had done a suffocating job at preparing it. This was after an argument about different types of knots, and why Sherlock was never his own experimental subject. John lost.

For this reason, they did not speak during the concert. Sherlock devoted the time to his thoughts, and often had to remind John not to breathe so loudly.

"I _have to breathe_, Sherlock!"

"That, I believe, can be done with your _mouth closed_."

The interval was equally straining:

"He's still there." Said Sherlock, gesturing flippantly to Mr Holladay.

"God," spat John, "I was about to say, 'Oh, don't worry, there's half the show left. Plenty of time for a murder.' That's not _good_, Sherlock."

"It's true. Do you see him?"

John nodded but protested staring.

"He's bang in the centre, seat elevated, sipping champagne, no security. Beneath a chandelier as well, which is more Moriarty's style. But look at him, and how badly he's shaking... I can see it from here!" he mimicked this, with the hope John would diagnose it. He didn't, "This is torture. I have to go down there."

"What if that's what Moriarty wants you to do? What if he's waiting?"

"That," Sherlock said, standing up, "is complete rubbish. Stop watching movies, John. Moriarty won't even be here; I told you. Never does the killing himself."

"Right," John resigned himself to participation, "What do you need me to do?"

Sherlock assigned him to patrolling the staircase and told him to send a text, only if something 'exciting' happened. John prepared a message, marked Sherlock as the recipient, and politely returned his phone to his trouser-pocket. Sherlock muttered about visiting with Mycroft, but refused to ask for his help directly. They met in the box-seat, empty aside from the two brothers.

"Date's not going well, I see." Mycroft said, staring only at the handle of his umbrella.

Ignoring this, Sherlock began a summary of the case, much of which Mycroft was already aware of.

"Moriarty must be here, then." Mycroft decided, "It is the _only_ solution."

Sherlock refused to believe this, until a red laser-point appeared, flitting across his brother's forehead.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked flatly, "I thought you came to argue."

His surroundings screamed out new information. Instinctively, Sherlock turned to find Holladay; there was no dot hovering over his head, nor any of his vital organs. He looked, then, for John.

For an unsettling moment, his lungs refused to fill. The stairs were empty.

* * *

"Stop fussing, John." Moriarty's breath was hot against his ear, and he hated it, "I see you got my clue about the tie. Looks _dashing_ on you. I think it would look better on Sherlock, though... don't you agree?"

The tie was shredded from John's collar, and immediately repurposed.

"I learned this from a professional." Moriarty practically sang, as he twisted the fabric over John's eyes and mouth. An 'X' was formed across his face, which Moriarty explained as a target, "Impossible to miss."

"It's a shame you can't see this part of the _experiment_," his captor continued, slipping a rope through John's shirt-collar, "Had this done up just for you. Goes with the tie." He yanked it down, drawing John, gasping, into the air, "Oh, this isn't the bad part, John. Not yet. I think you'll find the hanging rather pleasant, compared to the falling."

Moriarty, grinning, continued his work. The final step was leaving a note for Sherlock. He took a knife from his pocket, and carved up the wooden post John was suspended from. When he'd finished the note, he tapped John's shoes.

"I'm not leaving you to die, John. I'm being perfectly reasonable."

When he stretched, John was able to support himself on the knife. Barely.

John was sure Moriarty's footsteps echoed out of the room; his heat and cloud of cologne had gone, anyway. Or perhaps this was a result of his dizziness. Every breath was laboured, and he had no focus to waste on his senses. Just breathing.

John was unable to call for help, and gagged when he attempted. He reached desperately into his pocket, and ran his fingers over every phone-key he could reach. He prayed one of them was 'send.'


	6. Bellicoso

Although he chose not to run, Mycroft did pursue his brother. Three snipers, focused respectively on Mycroft, Holladay, and John, were ordered to fold up their equipment. Moriarty smiled as he typed and sent their orders:

_Sorry, changed my mind._

Sherlock stood on the stairs, alone, and considered his priorities; _Exits, Holladay, Mycroft. Why is Mycroft following me? John, find John._

He was annoyed to notice his phone, vibrating in his pocket. It was removed, only to be silenced, until Sherlock noticed _who _sent the offending message:

_ (1) new text from – John:_

gthjopkdwa

He discerned neither code nor typo, and dashed toward the nearest exit, coat billowing as he ran.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called after him. The show was about to resume, and the lights flashed around them. Most patrons had already returned to their seats.

"Stay where you are." Sherlock did not turn around to give this order, but his tone convinced Mycroft to follow it.

Sherlock dialled John's number, and scolded each repetition of its ring. He was in a lonely corridor, now, and approaching a staircase. He selected his route based on its colour; the carpeting, walls, and decorations were red. Recent impressions on the carpet, gashes in the railing, and lingering colognes shouted their confirmation.

Of course, John had tried to answer his phone. The noise, he thought, increased his vulnerability. For this reason, when he heard clattering footsteps behind him, he worked to quiet his gasping. He reached one hand to his neck, and the other to his eyes. He was unable to untangle the tie and restore his sight, and was afraid of falling if he loosened the rope too much.

"John?!" The voice and the footsteps belonged to Sherlock. A door slammed nearby.

Although John intended to call back, 'Sherlock', his restraints made this a weak and incomprehensible whine.

Sherlock rushed to him, and inspected the knife he hovered over. He read what Moriarty carved upon the wood:

_U owe Me xx_

John felt the knife as Sherlock twisted it free of the post. He panicked, and was no longer able to maintain his breathing.

"Hold still." said Sherlock, offering one arm to John's waist and the other to the noose. John shook.

"I _warned _you about the falling, John." Moriarty's voice echoed from the cement, and bounced between the parked vehicles.

Sherlock ignored this and continued his work, sawing meticulously at the fibres; one at a time.

"You've somewhat ruined things." Moriarty proceeded, still hidden, "Trying to be clever; that's fine. But trying to be more clever than _me_... I _really_ don't like that. Because of you, dear, I've had to sack _three _of my gunmen. I hope they don't get _angry _and demand _revenge_, or something dull like that."

John fell, partially aided by Sherlock, who then tore the tie from his face and ensured he was breathing normally. They stared at each other and spoke only with their eyes.

"I'll see you later, boys." Moriarty said, falsely dramatic, "I _hate _being the third-wheel."

Although Sherlock had limitless questions for him, and John a collection of things to shout at him, they allowed Moriarty to leave in silence. They were unsure of where he departed from, but heard several doors shut simultaneously. His voice did not return.

The doctor rubbed his neck, and was relieved by the absence of blood. Although he could not support all of his weight in standing on the knife, its use had reduced the wound's severity.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked this in multiple variations.

"Yeah." said John, as he exhaled, "Fine. But I am _never _taking your fashion advice again."

They stared at the red tie, crumpled on the pavement.

"Three gunmen?" John asked, as Sherlock led him up the stairs to the ground level.

"Mycroft, Holladay, and you, unless I'm very much mistaken. A good trick for coercion."

"Mycroft?" John did not mention how Moriarty _actually_ gained his cooperation: he was told all available guns were fixed on Sherlock.

"Is fine." Prompted the detective, "Stop speaking, John. It's all very simple, and not worth your breath."

"I'm _alright, _Sherlock."

"That," said Sherlock, "is untrue, and would be evident to even your therapist."

They found a taxi. Once he was sure John was comfortable in his seat, Sherlock nervously composed a text:

Moriarty was there.

SH

Told you so. You've found John, then?

MH

Don't be childish.

SH

Sherlock hated admitting his faults, and quickly grew defensive. As typical, this emotion corroded all his others; he refused to let John move until they were safely back at Baker Street.

"For God's sake, Sherlock," said John, as he was dragged up the stairs, "I'll be fine."

"But you aren't _now_, are you? Sit down on the couch and _stop moving_."

Sherlock commandeered one of the dining chairs, and employed the Union Jack pillow to make a tolerable back-rest. Harshly, he removed John's coat and folded back his shirt-collar. The injury, he saw, had not bled, but formed a mass of black bruises. Sherlock prepared a towel and a glass of icy water to soothe the wound. As he returned to his seat, his phone rang.

"I can do this, y'know." John assured him, reaching for the rag.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stumbled into the kitchen, and answered.

"Found one of your boys." Lestrade's voice began, "Will you come?"

"No." said Sherlock, peering at John, "Just give me details. Interesting ones." He tapped his fingers against the back of the phone, which both John and Lestrade could hear.

"It's that 'Waverly' one. That's all we're legally allowed to call him. Is _that _interesting?"

"Sounds fine."

"I'd say he was murdered, but it was more an execution; one bullet wound in the back of his head, hands tied behind his back."

"With rope?"

"Yes."

"Red?"

"It's got some blood on it, like he struggled."

"The rope itself, I mean."

"Just, uh... rope-coloured." said Lestrade, "Brownish."

"Where?"

"Sorry," Lestrade yawned, prompting Sherlock to check his watch, "Thought I told you... his hotel room; the _Fantoche_, Suite 811."

"What is he wearing? Describe it to me exactly."

He sighed:

"I wish you'd come down. I've gotta hand it over to forensics within the hour, and they won't let you in."

Sherlock refused, quietly citing John's injury before hanging up the phone.

* * *

Irene, as she was _working_, did not answer her phone. Moriarty was delighted to leave a voice-message:

"I've a date tonight, as well." he sang, "If you wanted to get into the house, I'm afraid you'll need to wait 'til morning. I'm going to see an old friend – well, _client _– at the _Fantoche _Hotel. Not 'client' as you mean it, Irene. See you tomorrow. Kiss kiss, _Jim_."

* * *

The night had lapsed into a foggy morning, with Sherlock still pacing in the kitchen. John slept on the couch, head propped against the flag-pillow. Sherlock stared at the latest message on his phone:

Please come. It's important.

Lestrade

John rustled on the couch, and reached for his pocket. He awoke to a similar message, and urgently relayed it to Sherlock:

New developments. Please meet me.

G

"He wouldn't text if it wasn't important," urged John, "We should go."

"I _know _it isn't important." Sherlock said, standing beside the couch, "_You're_ not going anywhere until you're well, and _I'm_ not leaving you anywhere alone."

"So, compromise; I'll take an aspirin and we'll go together." John offered with a laugh, "It's a good job _you _aren't a doctor."

Sherlock insisted, at least, on retrieving the medicine, and watched John as he swallowed it. He was not permitted to answer the text until safely downstairs and outside.

On our way.

JW

Thanks. Meet me in the lobby.

For the love of god, no fake IDs.

G

John chuckled, and did not show the message to Sherlock.

They summoned a cab, and compared theories during the journey. Sherlock, as ever, did most of the talking, and even contrasted his own ideas. John would nod, and rub his neck.

As promised, Lestrade met them in the lobby. As he prepared a brief summary of the location, Sherlock was already able to confirm each piece.

"Less than a hundred rooms," the Inspector began, "and spread out between nine storeys; one's just a restaurant."

"You've evacuated." Said Sherlock, counting only staff and no guests.

"Precautionary... everyone's still on edge about those bombs of his."

"Moriarty's?" John confirmed, a step behind and between them. Both men nodded.

Sherlock inspected the lift they entered, and muttered to himself until they arrived on the proper floor. Lestrade led them to Suite 811.

"Wasn't gone ten minutes." He explained, hovering a key-card over the door, "Forensics was preparing kit downstairs, and they called me back as soon as they got in."

The door was peeled open. Sherlock and John noticed, immediately, the peculiarity they were summoned to inspect: rather than standard yellow tape, the perimeter was enforced by red strings, hoisted at all angles.

Beyond that, the body was visible, just as Lestrade described. They stepped through the threaded maze, which reminded John, vaguely, of a field of lasers. He then reminded himself to stop comparing his life to movies, even if Moriarty was involved.

"And," Lestrade was eager to speak _before _Sherlock knelt to study the victim, "His watch is gone. That's all that's missing... we've got photographs, if you need them."

Sherlock shook his head and picked up the man's wrists, by the cuffs of his coat. _Expensive_, _excessively cleaned, rarely worn. _He assumed the same description applied to the wristwatch.

"Thank you." Said Sherlock, standing again. He turned, jumped clear of the red strings, and opened the door, "Would you look the body over, John?"

"Hang on," the doctor tilted his head, "where are _you_ going?"

"No need to follow me; it doesn't matter. Text me."

With the door firmly shut, Sherlock rushed to the nearest lift. He found two, across from one another in a decorated corridor, and selected the one which opened first.

"Miss me?"

He rolled his eyes and joined Moriarty in the lift.

"Boring." Sherlock sighed.

"It is now, yes. But it'll get better." He sat down in the corner of the lift, "Any questions, while we wait?"

"Wait for what?"

"Oh, let me surprise you with _something_." His smile was annoying, "I _know _you haven't thought this part out yet. It's _very_ good."

Sherlock refused to speak. This did not bother Moriarty, who studied his hands while he continued:

"Y'know the murder, up there? Not important. This has been as much a game for me as it has for you. I got paid to retire a racehorse, in any method I chose, and the rest just... happened. Fun to watch, isn't it? Hardly left my house."

"The wristwatch?" Sherlock stared at the buttons on the wall, as they lit up in succession.

"Fancied a new one." Moriarty held out his wrist for Sherlock's approval, "_Patek Philippe_. Oh, dear. That's not a crime, is it? I would _hate_ to spoil my record. If I remember correctly, it's cleaner than _yours_. Although, I suppose your brother takes care of that for you."

Sherlock shrugged, and Moriarty stood.

"Would you stop us after the next one, dearie? Can't miss your surprise."

Sherlock stalled the lift, which also terminated its power. Moriarty stepped forward and separated the doors. They were stopped between two floors, and stared out at wires, pipes, and insulation.

"That one, I'm told." Moriarty said, turning Sherlock's head, "Feast your pretty eyes on _that_."

They both stared at the opposite lift, waiting at the top level. It collected a single passenger, but remained still.

"You know how these things work, don't you?" drawled Moriarty, gesturing at the lift-cables.

"Yes."

Moriarty repeated his question, this time producing a laser-pointer from his pocket. Sherlock remained still.

"I _did _tell John the falling was worse than the hanging. You owe me."

"What do I owe you?"

Moriarty clasped his hands together, and leaned into Sherlock's shoulder:

"_Watch_." He made Xs with his laser.

A bullet, very precise, severed the main cable. The smaller supports were shot afterward, as directed by the laser, and the lift slid quickly down the shaft. Sherlock and Moriarty watched, sitting dangerously in the open doorway, dangling their legs over the edge.

Sherlock knew there was a stopping mechanism, which was not attached via cable. He also knew not a _single_ person had died _inside _a falling lift in a century. Even considering these scientific consolations, Sherlock could only visualize John.

Moriarty continued smiling, even as the hydraulic brakes deployed.

"Better go check on him." Moriarty said, standing and shutting the doors. They continued on their course to the ground floor, with Sherlock trying to conceal his nervous breaths, "Don't worry _too _much; it's only an experiment. What kind of scientist would I be if I killed my subjects?"

"What if I stopped us, right now," Sherlock's voice was rarely so cold, "and pushed you out?"

"I'd _fall_." Said Moriarty, still grinning up at him, "But you can't _kill _me, Sherlock. Only_ I_ could manage _that_."

They arrived at the lobby, and stared at each other before the doors parted.

"I'll find you when I need you." Moriarty offered his hand, which Sherlock refused, "Soon."

As the doors opened, Sherlock studied the room. Lestrade, flanked by paramedics and hotel staff, had established a perimeter around the other lift. Sherlock watched the doors as they converged on Moriarty, and made no attempt to follow him or reveal his presence. He ran to the wreckage, and shoved his way to John, who was surrounded by the paramedics, all dabbing his face and inspecting his arms.

Lestrade wisely instructed the others to leave, and allowed Sherlock to work on his own.

"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock sat immediately before him, "John, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I heard you." He offered, between clenched teeth.

"Moriarty?" begged Lestrade, shifting his eyes between them.

"Doesn't matter." Said Sherlock. John was hauled to his feet, and draped an arm over Sherlock's. Lestrade offered his help, as well as his police-car.

He drove them, immediately and without question, to Baker Street.


	7. Coll'arco

**A/N: Okay guys, one chapter to go! Thanks so much for your reviews! Join the title-contest, too! Send me a PM :D  
Enjoy!**

* * *

For the rest of the morning, Moriarty remained in the hotel. He loved the thrill of exposure; he made a game of tapping _every _policeman on the shoulder, and asking about directions to a restaurant, or for help with finding other evacuated guests. Feeling particularly brave, he found the team of paramedics repackaging their equipment, and complained of a headache. When the scene was emptied, and the corpse removed, he found his way back to the suite, where he lounged on the bed and flipped through television channels. None had covered the murder. Anyway, his name would not be connected.

As a reward, he made a shopping detour on his walk home. There was one item on his list.

"Could I get that wrapped?" he grinned at the shopkeeper, "It's a gift."

"Anniversary?" asked the shopkeeper, pleasantly. Moriarty nodded, as the man folded wrapping-paper over the chosen bottle of wine. He then gestured at a wall of ribbons, all sizes and shades.

"A bow," Moriarty said, preparing to pay for it, "Would be lovely."

He selected a thick red ribbon, edged with gold.

* * *

Once again, John was confined to the couch. Lestrade stood between the windows; a sentry for both his car and companions. Sherlock was anxious, and unable to sit or stand for a reasonable time. His hands were constantly over John's, counting cuts and comparing temperatures. With the rag, still damp from the previous night, he scrubbed the blood from his blogger's lips.

"_Stop moving_." Sherlock grumbled. John rolled his eyes, which were barely open, and yanked his hands away. His wincing influenced the sarcasm:

"Alright, Show-off, give me a minute."

"Show-off?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and gave an impatient sigh, leaving John to diagnose himself:

"Distal radius fracture in," he held up his hands and tried to flex his fingers, "both wrists… so, _broken. _Couple cuts from hitting the railing, but nothing bad." He paused and listened, "Breathing's normal now..." He shut his mouth, and traced his tongue over his teeth, "Not bleeding anymore."

The doctor gave a weak smile, then spoke bitterly through blood-stained teeth:

"I have _definitely _been worse."

"You were limping again." Sherlock said, glaring at the staircase. Mrs Hudson was heard below, rummaging for her first-aid kit, as Sherlock had ordered.

"Ankle's sprained," he crossed his feet over the edge of the couch, placing the injured one on top, "Not broken. I knew I'd fall on it wrong... always do."

"Show-off." Sherlock repeated. He stood and turned toward the windows, followed dramatically by his coat.

Lestrade watched him.

"Speaking of," he began, "I could really do with a summary, before word gets out."

"It's nothing new," hummed Sherlock, clasping his fingers together, "A game, just like the last one."

"Could I just get some facts, please? I've a hard enough time tackling that, once the press start throwing out theories."

"You're right; you _do _have a hard time tackling facts."

Lestrade rolled his eyes:

"Seventy-two people evacuated... one of 'em's bound to say _something_."

"Is that all?" Sherlock was surprised to see he hadn't exited yet.

"Dunno why I bother." Lestrade said, mostly to himself, "We may need you at the Yard tomorrow."

"Text me." said Sherlock. He escorted Lestrade to the stairs, but no further.

Mrs Hudson immediately took the inspector's place:

"I've got some bandages for you, Dear, and a cold-pack."

"You're a saint." said John. He requested tea, which, after wedging the cold-pack beneath his ankle, she rushed to prepare.

Sherlock unravelled every bandage, then accepted John's advice on applying them. They were fastened a bit tighter than necessary, and John shrugged. He accepted the aspirin Sherlock brought, still on the table from the previous evening.

"You're right, though." he said, sleepily, "I shouldn't move much."

It was difficult for Sherlock to be annoyed with his patient; he quarrelled with his own laziness instead.

"Could I have my laptop?" John asked, turning his head to it. One hand was crumpled in his lap, useless, while the other did a shaky job at holding his teacup.

Sherlock huffed, retrieved the computer, and set it on the armrest.

"Why?" he asked, leaning over to unfold it _and _enter John's password.

"I've a blog to update." He looked apologetically at Sherlock, "You'll need to type, though."

* * *

When Moriarty returned to his home, the sun was once again beginning its descent. Irene was there already, leaning against the front door and glaring. Her heel, red to match her lips, dug into the wood.

"_You're_ back late, James." She told him, as he reached for his keys.

"Had to stop somewhere first, _Irene_. Got you something."

She followed him inside as he revealed the wine-bottle. Irene tore off the bow, and tied it up into her hair, instead.

"I've been a bit excessive," he said, citing its price-label, "But I felt like celebrating."

In a single, swift motion, Irene slid off his necktie, and tossed it to the couch.

"I used every trick you taught me." He ignored her advances, and went to the kitchen to prepare the wine.

"On Sherlock?" She took her customary seat on the couch, scooping up the tie and lacing it through her fingers.

"Heavens, no. He's not very… _open _to that sort of thing. His pet, though, should _always _be kept on a lead."

Irene grinned, as Moriarty passed her a glass, brimming with the sweet-scented wine. He sipped his, looking thoughtful.

"I imagine Sherlock thinks of me as a composer… that I write out little puzzles and let him have his fun." He swished the wine around in the glass, "He's wrong, though. I'm the _conductor_. He can compose whatever theory he wishes, but I tell him _exactly _what to do, and when, and how. He'll _always_ dance as I tell him. Every. Step."

* * *

In the following days, Sherlock fashioned his retired violin-bows into splints. John insisted the injuries were average and minor, and a hospital visit would do nothing but waste a lot of time and money. So, he rested on the couch and skimmed his stack of books and newspapers. Sherlock refreshed these daily, and his coffee-cup hourly. John would've been annoyed, had his hovering not been so genuinely well-intentioned.

Inevitably, though, Sherlock became bored:

He paced behind the couch and read over John's shoulder, voicing conclusions before John reached the bottom of the page. He tried thirty new ways of making coffee, which all ended as he expected. He found an article on the hotel evacuation, which he dismissed for being both a week too late and entirely incorrect.

"You can sit down." John offered, tossing his left hand toward the armchair, "Check the blog?"

"Nothing new," He muttered, taking his seat, "Except a comment from Stamford."

"How's he?"

"He asked how _you _were."

"Tell him 'fine', then, would you?"

Sherlock took the laptop and responded in a method of his own choosing. John would read and correct it eventually, as he'd done with the case-summary. As always, he dramatised it, but had yet to think of a matching title. With this, Sherlock refused to help him.

"I'm sorry about breakfast, boys." Mrs Hudson's voice echoed as she ascended the stairs, "Overslept."

She was, both John and Sherlock noticed, a great deal later than usual. The landlady continued apologising, as Sherlock guided John to the dining-room and ensured his chair was comfortable and injured foot was accommodated.

Sherlock set out the plates, three as always, while Mrs Hudson watched. She spoke quietly, as she looked through the window:

"Almost forgot," She took a long, thin package from under her arm and set it between them, "Someone's left this at my door by mistake."

It was wrapped in inoffensive brown paper, and bore Sherlock's name on a label in the centre.

"Thank you." Said John, then Sherlock. She nodded, graciously, and waited. Sherlock's glare, and insistence he heard her kettle whistling, forced her from the room.

"Aren't you going to open it?" John watched as Sherlock tapped the box and turned it over. His mind was occupied by the paper, and discerning its history. The nail-polish along the corner certainly belonged to Mrs Hudson, but suggested she received it earlier than that morning.

"Obviously." Said Sherlock. He stood and retrieved the letter-opener, then sawed madly at the top of the package. When done with the box, he shoved it aside, eager to examine the contents:

A violin-bow.

"Horse-hair." said John, with a smile.

"Obviously." Sherlock repeated. Hiding a similar smile, he dug out his instrument from beneath a stack of rejected newspapers. While John finished his breakfast, Sherlock played.

In the time it took John to heal completely, Sherlock composed a thorough musical account of their latest case. John was content to listen and inspired to enhance the version on the blog. He typed what the song told him:

_The Adventure of the Dancing Men_


	8. Codetta

Moriarty's wine bottle was displayed prominently in the kitchen. The light from the window, which Irene always kept open, danced between the glass and the liquid. Every evening, they would share a glass after dinner. Irene decided, picking the bottle up one night, that she would leave when it was empty.

During the final day, she packed up her cases and rearranged her room. She had been in contact with several friends about finding new lodgings, since her work with Moriarty was done. Most of the new projects on his list, as he described them, were simple and arranged primarily through phone-calls. He mocked many of his clients while they waited for his answers.

That evening, after dinner, they sat on the couch and lingered over the wine. Moriarty sifted through the texts on his phone before dropping it down on the table.

"It's sad, Irene," he began, "For you to leave so soon."

The question surprised her; although all her things were obviously in suitcases, she had shut her room and locked the door. She glared at the mobile phone, buzzing on the table. Because Moriarty ignored it, she tried to do the same:

"I've found a friend with a proper castle." Her eyes grew almost as dark as his; the ocean in the night.

"So your _friend _told me."

She crossed her legs and shrugged, looking defensive.

"I said I was sad, Irene, not angry." He stood up and laughed lightly, "Let me drive you."

The woman considered this as a threat and as an invitation. She could not decide which he intended, so she spoke vaguely and quietly:

"Haven't finished my wine, James."

He shook his head, clicked his tongue, and scrolled though the exchange on his phone. To Irene, he displayed her new address.

"I _insist_."

She set her glass down; still mostly full. Her lipstick made a pattern around the rim. She glanced to the window, open and darkening, and was inspired:

"You gave me three wishes."

"_Good_!" he smiled and reclaimed his seat, admitting his fondness of fairytales. He looked only at the phone-screen, pictures glinting across his eyes.

"My second wish," her voice was firm, "Is to take a cab there. I _will _get what I wish for."

"Of course! I meant to drive you in _my _cab, Irene. Don't be dull."

The phone was snatched from his hands, so Irene could bask in his full attention.

He had been sorting the pictures he'd gathered of the Baker Street flat. She looked fondly at an image of Sherlock's bedroom; although dark and grainy, she could see the genius, slumped in the corner, propping up one wrist with the other. What she could not see was his skin, delicate and discoloured, mottled with patches and plaster, and glowing through the poison in his veins.

"I was there," Moriarty boasted, leaning over to see the screen, "And he never saw me. I should leave him gifts more often." He tapped the image to expand it, "He seems to like the needles... did that before you moved in, though."

She continued staring at the picture, and although she could not see the battle and pain of lapsing addiction, she could guess at the tragedy. Her voice found new strength, and she stared directly at her employer:

"My third wish is to see Sherlock Holmes."

"You _are _clever." Moriarty affirmed. He took her wine glass and poured the contents into his. He sipped this, and allowed her to stare at the symbolically empty one, "We'll leave very soon, then. Just after I've finished my wine."

He drank annoyingly slowly, and Irene only watched him and counted each sip.

Once both glasses were dry, Moriarty stood and walked smugly to Irene's room. He unlocked it and gathered her suitcases. She followed him, silently, from there to his private car, parked in town against a cleverly-disabled meter.

"The coach to your castle." He said, depositing her luggage in the boot of the car.

"I'd like to stop at Baker Street first." She refused to accept the door he opened for her.

"No, I'm afraid not. You wouldn't like that at all." He nudged her shoulder, and she grudgingly sat down and shut her door, "What you'd like better, Irene, is to listen to me for a moment. Have I told you how good I am at arranging things?"

"Best in the world, _James_." She shrugged and stared out her window, "What would you like to arrange?"

"I'd like to make a deal with you, Irene. An extension of our contract." He did not start the car, or even take the key from his pocket. Instead, he removed a pen and a chequebook. Grandly, he filled one it, signed it, and stared at it. He smiled until she could see him in the car-mirrors, then he continued:

"Of course, I aim to keep my clients happy, and I know you do the same." He ran one hand over his hair, "I will, very soon, be funding another dance with Sherlock Holmes. I've learned rather enough about his heart; how far his brother is, and how close his pet is. The goal is for you to get closer. The money, then, is to ensure your cooperation, because I know you find it... _difficult _to behave."

He turned around to hand her the cheque, and watched, approvingly, as her eyes charted the figures.

"You can take your own cab," he told her, pressing a button to unlock the car-doors, "I don't really feel like driving today."

"You won't follow me?" She slid the cheque to safety within her handbag.

"You know how often I change my mind."

He exited the car, opened her door, and retrieved her suitcases again. She reached to shake his hand, which he disagreed with. He rolled off her glove to kiss the back of her hand.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Ms Adler."

"I wouldn't call it _that_."

She hailed a cab, and allowed him to open this door for her, as well. Smiling, she rolled down her window as the driver awaited instruction.

"The pleasure was all mine, James."

"Jim." He urged, but she had already sealed the window. The cab rattled away through the rain.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you all for reading and reviewing. If you enjoyed this, please check out my other Sherlock works (I am planning a companion iece to this one, too... details to follow.) And it isn't too late to join in the mystery: PM or review the meaning of the chapter titles, and I'll write you a oneshot.**

**Also, I will be editing this piece soon, but I will not be making any major changes. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing.**

**Thanks again,**

**Sally**


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